Chapter Three: The Vineyard and the Vow

Chapter Three: The Vineyard and the Vow

The flight to Spain was as quiet as everything else between them.

Gabriel's private jet was a sleek marvel of wealth champagne leather, polished oak, a silence so dense it pressed into Lucy's chest. She sat near the window, watching the clouds slice past, her fingers tight around the leather armrest. Across from her, Gabriel read from a thick portfolio, as if she weren’t even there.

But he had noticed her. She could feel it.

Once, during turbulence, her hand jerked and brushed his knee. He didn't pull away, but he also didn’t react. That indifference hurt worse than hatred.

By the time they touched down, dusk had painted the Spanish countryside in copper and gold. The vineyard estate stood on a gentle hill, surrounded by endless rows of vines that glistened in the low light. It was beautiful. Untamed. Almost peaceful.

Gabriel led her through the gates without speaking. The staff greeted them in hushed tones. Lucy caught no warm glances or curious stares only practiced silence.

She was beginning to learn that silence followed Gabriel like a shadow.

The guest room wasn’t a prison, but it felt like exile.

She unpacked slowly, each folded blouse another reminder that she didn’t belong here. That this wasn’t her life. That somewhere, Serena was free.

Lucy ran her hand along the edge of the dresser. Smooth mahogany. Handmade. Nothing in this house was accidental.

Except her.

There was a knock at her door.

She opened it to find Gabriel standing there, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.

"Dinner is in fifteen minutes," he said. "Don’t be late."

Then he turned and walked away.

The dining room was long and grand, lit by dozens of candles flickering in brass holders. A feast stretched across the table roasted duck, saffron rice, steamed artichokes, fresh bread with olive oil pressed from the very vineyard outside.

Lucy’s plate was full. Gabriel’s, barely touched.

"Is it always like this?" she asked softly.

He glanced up. "Like what?"

"You and your house. The quiet. The distance."

He didn’t answer right away. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then laid it beside his plate.

"Silence is cleaner than lies."

Her gaze held his. "But it still hurts."

He looked away.

She reached for the wine a deep red with notes of plum and something darker. After a long sip, she asked, "Why the vineyard?"

Gabriel leaned back in his chair. "My mother loved it here. She used to bring me every summer before my father found new places to send her away."

Lucy blinked. "I didn’t know your mother—"

"You don’t know anything about me."

The words were not cruel. Just true.

She set down her glass. "Then tell me."

His jaw tightened. "What would it change?"

"Maybe nothing. Maybe everything."

He pushed back his chair. "Dinner is over."

She stayed seated, heart pounding.

That night, she sat on the balcony, a blanket around her shoulders, staring out at the vines.

The air was cool, scented with earth and rain. Somewhere, a night bird cried. Her thoughts circled like smoke memories of her childhood, of John’s gentle advice, of her stepmother’s cruel smile.

Gabriel’s voice echoed in her head: “You don’t know anything about me.”

He was right. But she wanted to.

The next morning, Lucy rose early. She pulled her hair into a loose braid and slipped into jeans and boots. Elena, the housekeeper, blinked in surprise as Lucy entered the kitchen.

"Do you know where I can find Gabriel?" she asked.

"He is in the south fields."

"Thank you."

She walked there herself, past the rows of grapes heavy with dew. The vines stretched endlessly in both directions, sun glinting off their leaves.

She found him near a small shed, sleeves rolled up, clipboard in hand. He looked completely different here rugged, focused, real.

"You work the land yourself?" she asked.

He didn’t look up. "Sometimes."

"I’d like to help."

That got his attention. He raised an eyebrow. "You want to help?"

"Yes."

He studied her like she was speaking another language. "Why?"

She shrugged. "Because I’m tired of feeling like wallpaper in my own life."

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he handed her a pair of gloves. "Fine. But no complaints."

She smiled faintly. "No promises.

By noon, her back ached and her fingers were stained. She learned to prune vines, carry baskets, and listen. Gabriel didn’t speak much, but she learned to read the small things: the way he pinched the bridge of his nose when something went wrong, the way his voice softened slightly when speaking to the workers.

He wasn’t cruel. He was just… guarded.

They broke for lunch under an olive tree. Elena brought bread, cheese, and chilled lemonade.

Lucy sat beside him. "You’re not what I expected."

He didn’t look at her. "Neither are you."

"Is that a compliment?"

He hesitated. "It’s an observation."

She laughed softly. For once, it didn’t feel forced.

He turned to her, face unreadable. "Why do you want this to work, Lucy?"

She blinked. "I didn’t say I did."

"But you do. I see it in your eyes. Even when you’re angry, you want to understand."

"I guess I’m just tired of being kept in the dark. Tired of the lies."

He nodded slowly. "Then maybe we have that in common."

She reached for another piece of bread, then paused.

"Tell me something true, Gabriel. One thing no one else knows."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he said quietly, "My mother died in this vineyard. She collapsed out there one evening, during harvest. Heart attack. I was seventeen. I found her."

Lucy’s breath caught.

He continued, "I kept the place because I couldn’t let go of her. It’s the only part of my life that’s real."

She reached out, her fingers brushing his.

"Thank you for telling me."

He didn’t pull away.

That night, they ate dinner together again. It wasn’t formal. No candlelight. Just two plates, two glasses of wine, and the smell of roasted garlic in the air.

They talked about the vineyard. About books. About the stars.

And when he walked her to her door, he paused.

"Lucy."

She turned to face him.

"This marriage was built on silence and lies. But maybe… maybe we can rebuild it on something else."

Her voice was barely a whisper. "Like what?"

"Truth."

She smiled faintly. "Then tell me one more."

He stepped closer, so close she could feel his breath.

"I don’t hate you. I never did."

Then he left her standing in the hallway, heart full of questions and something terrifyingly close to hope.